


Tsunami

by firenewt



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firenewt/pseuds/firenewt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even Tseng's iron control slips sometimes, in private, and unexpectedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tsunami

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Soyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soyna/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Thanks to Square Enix for letting me play in their world.

TSUNAMI

 

Tseng quietly shut the door to his office. It was early evening, but that was the signal that he was going to be working late and didn’t want to be disturbed. The sounds of the remaining Turks getting ready to leave for the day and the ones on night duty arriving became muted and distant. He turned to his desk. A lone hooded lamp on it shone brightly, creating a pool of light in the otherwise dark cocoon of the room. A cup of tea and three small biscuits sat by the open file that lay there waiting for him. Sighing, he sat heavily, gracelessly flopping into the chair that was worn to the shape of his back and butt, something he’d never do in front of anyone else. But here, in his private sanctuary, he could allow himself an unguarded moment. 

Tired. He was so tired. Resting his elbows on his desk, he closed his eyes and massaged his temples lightly with his fingertips. The steam from the tea rose and he inhaled it. Jasmine. Light and refreshing. But it couldn’t ward off the headache he could feel waiting to pounce on him and dig its long claws deep into his brain. He ran a hand to the back of his neck, reaching up and removing the clip that held his hair, and then rubbing the base of his skull, trying to eliminate some of the tension there. 

He leaned back in his chair, one hand shading his eyes, the other continuing to knead the back of his neck. He sighed. A nap would be nice, but he had too much work to do. And he’d probably end up feeling more groggy, not less. He needed sleep, a holiday, a second self, a break from the constant stress of his world. He snorted softly. Like that would ever happen. But at least he could take a few minutes now to calm and clear his mind, before his second shift. 

Slowly, Tseng’s hands settled on the arms of the chair. Eyes still closed, head resting against the back of the chair, he breathed in through his mouth, into his belly, and out through his nose. He focused first on the noises he could hear outside his office, noting them and then dismissing them, one by one. Light female laughter from down the hall: Shotgun and Gun, making plans to go to a movie. A sharp snap that he knew was Rod popping a bubble with his ever-present gum. The slow, steady susurration of a whetstone along a blade: probably Katana, but possibly Knife. Rude’s deep voice quietly wishing the others a good evening as he left. A sudden wet snuffling and blowing along the bottom of his door as Dark Nation made her rounds.

His awareness moved next to the small sounds inside the room, closer but somehow harder to hear, and harder to ignore. The faint buzz of the lamp. The slight hum of his computer, sleeping in the corner. Tiny crackles as the thick shatterproof glass of the window behind the shades cooled in the night air. A sudden small creak from his chair. And finally the sound of his own breathing. 

He sank into his own body, now only hearing the air moving in and out of his lungs; his heart, beating in his chest and echoing in his ears; the sound of himself swallowing involuntarily. The quiet pressed in on him. Tseng hung on the edge of an abyss. From here, he knew he could pass easily into sleep, or into a meditative state of hyperawareness from which many things could be accomplished. But tonight he couldn’t seem to decide which path to take. Worse, he didn’t care. Both were a sure sign he was badly in need of more than just a few minutes of deep breathing. But he could not afford that luxury. 

He hovered in the blackness of his own mind, feeling the weight of all the lives he carried, feeling the weight of the Planet’s future, the weight of all the things that still needed to be done stretching out in front of him, feeling himself at the center of a web so complicated and delicate that once false move could derange the whole structure. And all the fine strands led to him. So much to do. So much responsibility. Instead of calming, his mind began to slip. He felt he was in the shadow of a monstrous wave that was rearing high over him, blocking the light, crashing down on him, choking him, dragging him out to depths where he would be pounded and snuffed out of existence, control completely taken from him.

Tseng’s normally rigid self-control snapped. Cold sweat broke out all over his body, drenching him. His breathing accelerated, his heart pounded, his throat closed, and his eyes shot open, fingers clawing at his collar and tie to loosen them. He bent forward and put his head between his knees, trying not to faint or vomit, overwhelmed with panic. It was too much. Too much for any person to handle, to accomplish, to be responsible for. What had he done? What had he got himself into? He would fail. He was failing. All the good he had tried to do was being twisted, turned to hurt, slashing back on those he had tried so hard to protect. His own selfishness, his own pride, lay at the heart of his failure, like a rotten core at the heart of a ripe apple. And so his every venture was doomed. No matter what he did, his work would be for nothing. 

Despair and helpless anger engulfed him. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. His eyes burned with tears. He wanted nothing more than to curl up on himself and disappear forever. If only there was some escape from this prison of his own making. But there was only one way out, and he could not take that route. Not yet. His honour, his duty, bound him to this present like a fragile silver chain. Mentally he held onto that chain. It cut him, slicing into his flesh, made him bleed, a constant source of agony. It destroyed his soul. But he held onto it and dragged himself back from the edge of the pit. 

He could do it. He would. He was Tseng. Of the Turks. But first and always, he was himself. And that was enough. 

Wasn’t it?

Feeling like he had just fought a dragon with his bare hands, he pushed himself back in his chair, limp and drained. The nausea rolled over him again and he retched. Perhaps the tea would help relieve the dizziness and anchor him to his purpose again.

Hand shaking, he reached for the teacup. The hot liquid slopped into the saucer, dripped on the file, scalded his hand. But it felt good to him. Cissnei had brewed him the tea when he said he would be working late. Reno had bought the little almond cookies for him last weekend when they had gone for a walk in the rain. Rufus had given him the fine porcelain cup and saucer last year, very close to Father’s Day, and the meaning behind the gift was clear. 

His enemies spent much time searching for a weakness to exploit: a drug, a vice, something he valued that could be used for leverage. What they didn’t realize is that all these people were his weakness. Every Turk, everyone in HQ, every person in Shin-Ra. 

Tseng felt himself reeling, wobbling with revelation. Not just his people. Every person on the Planet. All living things on the Planet. In fact, the Planet itself. And beyond. The state he had been trying to achieve before seemed within reach. From the darkness, he could feel now that he truly did seem to be part of a web. He was part of everything and everything was a part of him. He was not alone. Every little thing that he did created ripples that passed through him and out into the universe, affecting everything and all they touched. His tiny contributions did make a difference. He would do his best. And in that way he would not fail. No one could do more or ask more than that. A small comforting warmth touched him. He was doing what he was meant to do. And he would see it through. 

Now, instead of being crushed and drowned, Tseng felt a little less weak and lost, carried on the back of a something far greater than himself. He felt a humble gratefulness to be part of the whole, and his pride was now not in his own small accomplishments but in having a part to play in a much bigger symphony: he could make beautiful music by himself, but each note, each instrument, was necessary to produce a masterpiece. Perhaps instead of being swamped, he could keep swimming, and make it back to a safe shore. 

Sighing deeply, he came back to his immediate surroundings: the familiar feel of his comfortable chair; the slight smell of gun oil and leather; the taste of jasmine tea lingering on his tongue; the sound of Dark Nation’s toenails in the hall.

Tseng breathed in and out a few more times, feeling more solid with each exhalation. Then he straightened, and leaned forward. He pulled the file on his desk towards himself, and picked up the cup, sipping again. The exhaustion was still there, the headache looming, but he knew he would make it through this night. 

And, for right now, that was all that mattered.


End file.
